


i thought about now (thought about forever)

by harrietspecter



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Academy Era, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, F/M, Gen, Pre-Season/Series 01, there will eventually be more characters and I will add tags appropriately
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-07-10 01:00:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19897273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harrietspecter/pseuds/harrietspecter
Summary: "Chance meeting your perfect other, your perfect opposite - your protector and endangerer. Chance embarking with this other on the greatest of journeys"Phil Coulson is almost 20 years old when he meets Melinda May for the first time at the Operations Academy training center.





	1. Chapter 1

He's almost 20 years old when he meets Melinda May for the first time at the Operations Academy training center. The SHIELD Academy was broken up into three different fields -- Operations, Communications, and Science & Technology. Each of them had their respective gyms, but each also had their thing it's known for. Operations has the best fully equipped gym with the high ceilings for ropes, and a section of the gym was wall to wall of mats for hand to hand training. Communications has the best library with single and group study rooms. Science and Technology has an Olympic sized swimming pool and soundproofed rooms. So, naturally, as Operations has the best gym and it wasn't strictly for Operations cadets, he is braving the couple blocks of campus greenery to try his luck. And, before he has to make a fool of himself and take a hand-to-hand training class for credits, Phil Coulson figures he might want to get into shape. If he's lucky, he'll find an Operations cadet willing to take pity on him and show him the ropes, so at least he'll have an idea of what he's doing.

He hadn't planned too far ahead, but he had scoped out the gym and the class during his breaks and noticed quite a few guys who looked like they'd be in Operations spent a lot of time at the punching bag. He knows he'll be slightly more ready for combat training than his hero, Steve Rogers aka Captain America, but finds the task he's set for himself is a little overwhelming. He's rightfully intimidated, he thinks as he steps into the area of the gym where a few rows of boxing gloves hang. He already knows he stands out -- the few cadets finishing up are wearing black or navy blue, and here he has black basketball shorts and his red Captain America shield t-shirt. He tests a few gloves to see if they fit and he isn't sure what exactly he's supposed to be looking for in fit, but one pair seems like they'd work, so he snags them and heads off to a bag.

It doesn't help his confidence that a few of the Operations cadets who have hung back from finishing their workout laugh at him as he lands a lacklustre punch at the hanging bag near the gym entrance and exit doors. He tries to ignore them, but ends up taking the comments personally and punches the bag a little harder than he should have with his lack of skills. He begins to wonder if bruised bones are a thing you can get from a punching bag when the chuckles and comments cease being about him when a female cadet enters the gym. He turns out of his stance and hits the bag with his left hand to see who their new target is instead of him.

"Your stance is terrible," she greets as she stands with her hands on her hips and looking at him with a careful eye. She drops her gym bag on the floor beside her. "And the way the bag is swinging from the last punch, you're going to end up hurting yourself."

She's tiny in her black leggings, long-sleeved shirt, and black trainers. Clearly an Operations cadet and he’s already in awe of her for making it in the boys club. Her expression shows her concentration, thinned lips and dark brown eyes glance over him as she gives him a once over.

"You're, uh, just going to take those comments?" Phil asks her as he hears a couple of them call her unpleasant names about both her race and her gender.

"Of those four idiots, I say Garrett makes it through the Academy but give him two years to screw up because his ego overrides mission protocol. Of the two flanking him, one will make it to weapons training and then wash out, and the other will probably end up hurting himself permanently in hand-to-hand trying to show off. The fourth will end up washing out on his mouth alone. They do have a code of personal conduct here, despite what they think," she says as she circles the bag and her head pops out from one side as she finishes.

"I take it you've also already analyzed me in the three seconds you've been here," Phil notes. "Umm, Phil Coulson, by the way. Communications, first year."

"You're underestimated," she says as she holds out a hand and makes a come here motion when he looks confused. He follows her silent instructions and watches as she removes his boxing gloves and hears as she clicks her tongue. She ducks into her bag and pulls out a roll of tape. "And you'll use that to your advantage, Phil Coulson, Communications first year. Kind of like Steve Rogers before he became Captain America and saved the world."

He chuckles at the title she's given him because he's said too much.

"You're a Captain America fan, too?" He pitches his voice, even as he whispers, and he feels like an idiot as she pauses her task and looks up at him with an amused expression.

"He's not bad. Peggy Carter is more relatable, though," she shrugs as she continues to tape his hands, flexing his fingers with her hands for him since she doesn't think he's ever done this before.

"There," she says as she finishes wrapping his hands with tape. She helps him slide the gloves back on and shakes her head as he punches the bag like he's seen too many of the Rocky movies.

"Maybe you should start with some easier hand-to-hand stuff. You look like you're cut out for jiu-jitsu," she says as she leans a little on the bag, pulling it away from him. "It'll help with hand-to-hand when you get there. I'm guessing you're going to take it second year like most of the Communications cadets."

He nods, unsurprised at her assessment.

"Can you, maybe, teach me?" he asks, eyes wide and face filled with determination.

"I'm here most mornings at five and evenings at seven," she said after a moment of deliberation.

She releases the bag and circles around to his side and the bag swings slightly back into its place. Her shoes tap his own, and he gets the hint, moving his feet as she lines up his stance. She lines up at his side and makes a one-two motion he assumes is how he should punch the bag before she strays from his side.

"Don't let my tape go to waste," she says as she lifts her bag onto her shoulders.

"Hey," he calls out quietly as she starts to walk away. "I didn't get your name."

"Melinda," she says with a dip of her chin.

He watches her leave and repeats her name to himself, reaching out and punching the bag, noting it didn't hurt as bad as when he'd done it before her intervention.

\--

"I hear we have a drill sort of like the military and police academies that do the whole takedown a person while having pepper spray sprayed in your face," Phil announces one morning as he watches her do tai chi while he does simple stretches. Well, he sits on the floor near her and attempts stretching. He's not very flexible still and doubts there will ever be a time where he is even close to her level. She's given him some stretches to gain flexibility over the past four months, and he's more flexible than he's ever been, but he's still a work in progress.

"Sounds painful," she hummed, bored, as she holds her stance.

"I overheard Garrett saying to a few guys that it is an important mark in your field scores for the first year no matter what track you're in," Phil continues.

She opens her eyes and finds him looking up at her as he has one of his legs crossed over the other in a hollywood stretch. His form is getting better, but his back still pops like crazy enough to let her know there's still a ways to go until he's ready for the more rigorous balance exercises that don't have him mostly sitting on the ground to stretch.

"Are you asking me to pepper spray you so you're ready?" Melinda teases.

"What, no. I'm already going to cry and puke like a real newbie," Phil says quickly. "I was hoping you could help me with the whole finding a person and taking them down when blinded part."

"Why?"

"How about because every single time I try to sneak up on you, you turn around? Or the time I was out in the hallway and you stopped me before I could even get close to tagging you on that Academy-wide tag day?" Phil recalls.

"Fine," she agrees. "But you'll have to do something for me."

"As long as I don't get caught," Phil reminds her. He knows damn well it will be something to prank the guys as the comments from a select few have been less than pleasant as the two of them have been recently partnered up for strength training.

"It's only yellow food colouring in the showers," she shrugged a shoulder.

Phil bites his lip to keep his straight face.

Melinda gives him a slight chuckle and tells him to get up, and it's time for their run before they start jiu-jitsu.

\--

A week later, Phil is finally given lessons in how to visualize a room without actually seeing.

She slips a black sleep mask over his eyes and tells him to stay still. Her hands clasp his wrists as he stops his subtle wriggling in place thanks to losing a sense.

"You're going to have pepper spray in your face. Since you didn't want me to pepper spray you, this is the next best thing," Melinda says. "Use your other senses."

He begins to tense, and her hands close tighter against his wrists.

"Close your eyes," she tells him quietly.

"I'm blindfolded."

"Close. Your. Eyes," she says again, emphasizing each word.

Behind the mask, his eyes close.

"Better," she hums as he relaxes somewhat.

He smiles a little at her compliment.

"Remember that breathing technique I showed you a month ago? Do that six times and then try to find me."

He takes a deep breath in for six seconds, holds for two, and releases for seven. As he begins his fifth breath, her grip on his wrists loosen, and he wonders if his face shows the slight disappointment as he feels her slip away.

By the time he finds his center, he can hear the subtle shift of her weight as she moves lightly on the mats. He's ninety-nine percent sure she's purposefully making her steps heavier than usual since most people don't have the grace she does. The bottom sole of her shoes shift against the mats, and it gives way and makes a depressed sort of sound as the rubber meets the covering protecting the foam of the mat.

He can feel her presence, but he's always grabbing or turning towards her too late for his hands to capture a part of her. Once he even feels the slight warmth of her arm against the tips of his fingers.

"Not bad," Melinda says as her hand reaches for his shoulder to signal for him to pause. 

He turns a little in surprise at how close she sounds, and her hand ends up in the center of his chest which ends up making him screech to a halt. 

"But I definitely could have shanked or shot you."

He lifts the sleep mask to his forehead, and he watches as she gives him a small, smirking grin.

"Show me?" he asks and grabs the mask from his forehead and extends it to her.

She rolls her eyes, but she still has her subtle grin, so she's clearly going to make him regret it.

She slips the mask over her eyes, and he closes his hands around her wrist, bringing her to the center of the mat. He watches as she breathes in and out and he knows from experience that she may look carefree, but she's always on alert and ready to take someone down if needed.

"Ready?" He asks, and it sounds stupid, of course she's ready for him. She doesn't need him to talk her through anything.

She nods once anyway.

He releases her wrists and backs away, trying to be as silent as possible as he makes his way behind her. And as soon as he's off the mat, he slips his tennis shoes off so he can get some advantage of less squeak as he moves around.

For the longest time, she stands there with her back to him, and he finally decides it's the perfect moment to strike. Coming from her left, her less advanced side he's learned, he sneaks up behind her when his forearm and upper arm are gripped as she crouches into an almost squat-like position and flips him over her back. By the time it's all over, he's flat on his back, a little dazed from being flipped over, and grinning like a fool as he breathlessly chuckles with a hand to his chest.

She takes off her blindfold and gives him a once over, checking to make sure he didn't hurt himself.

"God, you're amazing," he says without thinking.

She ducks her chin and gives one of her soundless laughs as she averts her gaze. She lets him have a moment to breathe before she extends a hand to assist him up.

"Show me how to do that," he asks with the broadest grin as he takes her hand and lifts himself as she pulls up. "Please."

She throws him the sleep mask, hitting his forehead with the soft material.

"Let's get started."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> year two at the academy.

It wasn't entirely his fault that he ended up at the bench overlooking the Operations track and field every Tuesday. It was, after all, an open campus, and he was free to do whatever when he wasn't in his classes. And if he had just happened to exchange schedules with Melinda the first day of the second year at the Academy, then it wasn't entirely his fault. 

The middle of the Operations track field was built almost like the obstacle training camps you see used in the military, and Melinda was easy to spot even from where he was sitting up by the observation deck of the central wing of the Academy. She was the slight one in the full combat gear she had told him puts an extra 40 pounds on her person. The shortest one by a long shot. The cadet who got through the more agile of exercises before the other Operations cadets (with or without their combat packs on their backs).

More often than not, he'd pull out a small notebook and jot down a description of what the cadets did that he wanted to learn from her during their continued shared workout sessions.

After a while, he had stuck his nose in his _Public Policy and Lobbying_ textbook, thankful he didn't have days like Melinda where it was six to eight hours of drills. He lost himself in the powerful world of 502s, 504s, and engineering grassroots community groups as lobbyists and wondering how exactly it would apply to SHIELD as they're even more secretive than the CIA about their operations and operatives, but he's writing a paper on the application, so he's going to figure it out eventually.

He startled. The brush of hair against his shoulder and the side of his face broke him out of his musings, and he turned to find a freshly showered Melinda behind him, peering over his shoulder. 

"Hi," she says with a face of disgust at his choice of reading. Politics bored her. 

"You missed Spanish class," he greets as she offloads her backpack onto the concrete and sits opposite of him on the railing of the observation deck.

"Perks of Operations," she wordlessly thanks him as she reaches down for her backpack and puts the file folder that contains his notes and the homework into her bag. "You get to skip classes for training sometimes." 

As soon as she swooped, he stood quickly and made to catch her before stopping himself — she was a hell of a lot more coordinated and could probably stand on the bar while on one leg and do the same thing just as casually. He tried to save himself by moving to the railing and leaning on it, facing the field. 

If her small smile, showing just the slightest upturn of the corners of her lips, were anything to go by, he'd failed to cover himself. 

"I notice they don't call you anything but cadet," Phil notes. "Well, from what I can hear from up here."

"I don't think they bother to learn our names until the fourth year or we're in specialist training which happens next year if we make it to the third year."

"Aren't there only 45 of you?" he wonders. There's at least triple that in his year alone of the Communications cadets. Granted, Communications has a lot more fields to go into than Operations.

"43 now," Melinda looks over at him. "Of that, I think 12 of us want to be specialists." 

"Do you get to fight Garrett? I bet you'd kick his ass." 

She looks over at him, glowing mischief in his blue eyes that meet her amused brown ones, and there's a moment where she imagines this same look on a younger, smaller version of Phil Coulson who is getting his first Captain America comic book or action figure. She feels a bubble of something that gets lodged in her chest. A hand absently makes a fist and rubs just below her collarbone, sure that it's just a lingering something from working out all day.

"Why do you think he doesn't make fun of your sad excuse for a direct hit to the chest standing on your left leg when you're in second-year basic field skills lab?" She hums as he eyes her. "We're going to need to work on that this week. Put that in your notebook of things to learn." 

His grin turns into a slight frown, and he changed his stance, so he's facing her but leaning against the rail. 

"Okay, Hua Mulan. Defending my honour without me knowing and not seeking my eternal praise." 

She laughs aloud, and it's light and airy, and he stares at her in wonder for the briefest of moments.

"Wow. That was actually terrible. You really need to have Mandarin next class schedule. Maybe a full year, as they suggest."

She leans over and grabs her backpack, hiking it over her shoulders and turns to him again. 

"Come on, I'm starving, and the commissary is only serving salads and burgers, and I want pasta." 

"Aren't you supposed to carb load before a day of workouts and not after?" He asks but grabs his things. He knows better than to try and dissuade her from a goal. 

"You should know by now that every day is a workout day for Operations."

"My bad," he chides himself as she laughs at him. "Let's go before we miss the bus and have to walk."

"I'd make you carry me on your back, so hurry up slowpoke."

He grumbles good-naturedly about being a field agent, not a specialist, and how she'd probably make him fall over because her muscle mass is proportionally more substantial and it's better if she carried him.

If she shoves him into the doorframe as they walk through it, it's entirely his fault. 

—

Five o'clock in the morning was still early for Phil Coulson even if he did wake up every day for the past year at this time. His mother would be proud of Melinda for her feat and not having him press the snooze button. 

Today was his birthday. His 21st birthday. Usually, a day filled with a bar crawl and free alcoholic beverages, he was glad he didn't have too many friends here to force him into this traditional rite of passage. Sure, he had acquaintances that helped in terribly dull classes, but he really only had one friend, and she made him get up at 5:00 in the morning so he'd be at the gym at 5:15.

They're not the only ones in the gym this morning when it hit 5:30 and they've just finished their warmups. Melinda's beneath him with a leg hitched around his lower calf, about to flip them, when John Garrett and his crew whistle.

"Well, hey, there, little ninja princess," John laughs at the joke he makes, and Phil realizes that he's not directing the statement at Melinda, but rather at him. "We can always come back if you want to continue your alone time with Godzilla."

Beneath him, he hears a quiet huff and watches as she rolls her eyes. He feels her hold on him loosen and he looks down, his hands still pinning her wrists, albeit a little less focus on making sure the hold is secure.

"Godzilla is Japanese, not Chinese," she huffs so only they can hear, and he has to bite his lip to silence the chuckle and smirk. "So is ninja, if I'm picky."

"Stop," he says with a breathy laugh, and she stifles a chuckle of her own. "I thought you kicked his ass."

"Why do you think _you're_ the ninja princess and _I'm_ Godzilla. I'm sure if I lost, I'd be ninja princess, or he'd be making the ' _me love you long time_ ' joke."

"Unless you're into the voyeurism thing. I mean, the still waters run deep or whatever," John continues as he punches the air in a one-two rhythm and winks.

He can feel her start to slip out of the hold he has on her wrists when he tightens them.

"Nope," Phil shakes his head and tilts his head. "I got this."

"It's okay," Phil says with a quick and easy grin as he looks to Garrett. "We just finished our workout. The gym all yours."

He releases Melinda, and they both roll to a squat and stand, Melinda watching Garrett and his workout buddies with a careful eye as she moves to gather her backpack and their water bottles.

"There's a hiking trail that leads to a little ledge where you can see the entire Academy. I've been there twice. We can at least get some cardio," he suggests as he watches her shrug on her backpack and continues as if Phil had been speaking the truth to Garrett about their workout time.

"Lead the way," she nods her head, and he holds open the door to the gym.

—

"Stop squirming," Melinda tells him as she frames his face in her hands and turns his chin so she can examine the cut at his temple that's slowly trickling blood. 

She hums as she snags something from her backpack and wads it up before pressing it to the cut. 

"Ow," he sighs. "You have great bedside manner."

"You're a model patient," she deadpans back and grabs his wrist and has him hold the wad of cloth to his temple.

"C' mon," she says as she helps him stand and get steady on his feet. "It might need a butterfly or two, but I can't see because you're bleeding all over yourself."

"You happen to have any in your pocket?" He asks with a laugh and then winces as it hurts his head. 

"I know where to get some," she reminds him as she tilts her head in the direction of the Academy headquarters as she hikes her backpack over her shoulders again. 

She helps him up and slows her pace as she walks, so they're side by side rather than her in front of him on the trail back down the hillside.

"I'm sorry," she whispers as she looks over at him once they're on the concrete grounds again.

He still looks miserable as he walks with his arm up as he continues to make a compress. 

"I should have paid more attention," he shrugs his shoulders. It's true. Melinda had held the branches back, and he thought he'd gotten ahold of all of them, but there were a few unruly ones and as soon as she'd released it so she could continue walking for him to make his way through, a few snapped into his face and one had cut deep enough where he'd felt blood dripping down his face. 

She had stopped, and something had flashed across her face as he'd laughed a little in shock. She had come to his side and dropped her backpack to assist him. 

At least they had made it to the ridge, and he had been able to see the sunrise over the Academy and Melinda's small gasp of wonder at the expanse of the grounds and the violet and light pink sunrise.

They had made it to the middle of campus sometime during his musings of how this wasn't the best start to his birthday, and she took him to an unfamiliar side of the buildings, knocking in a series before stepping back. 

A man slowly opened the door. He is shorter than Melinda, which he hadn't known was possible, and the man looks at her suspiciously before breaking into a laugh. 

"You don't look injured," he greets. 

"It's Captain America over there," she nods to Phil who realizes he's, yet again, wearing a Captain America T-shirt. 

"Ooh, sparring with an Operations cadet is never a good idea unless you want to die. Which, by the way, totally worth it if you're going toe to toe with her. She sent a few people here last month. We don't have bets or anything going here in SciTech's med wing. Nope."

"I appreciate you think I could hold my own," Phil says with a slight grin. "But this was idiot versus tree, and the tree's left hook won." 

"Fine," the man sighs and opens the door. "But in exchange I want you to prank Sam. Maybe the classic shaving cream in the palm and a rude wakeup."

"Deal," Melinda nods, and they pass through the door. 

"Exam room three is clear," the man whisper yells as Melinda leads the way. 

She sets her backpack down on the visitors' chair and moves to the sink to wash her hands. 

He stands at the closed door, leaning against it and finally removes the compress. He suspects he's had it on long enough that the blood has dried and created a bit of a scab barrier. 

When he finally set down the cloth with smears of his blood, and it unravelled, he paled a little. 

"That's your tank top," he says as he jerks back from the counter he's set it on, and she rolls her eyes. 

"What'd you think it was?" She asks as she lines up all her supplies near the sink, glancing at him. 

"I, umm, I figured it was just a towel."

"It's hard to get blood out of microfibre towels. It's easier to buy a five-dollar tank top."

She transfers all the supplies she needs onto the exam table and hops up on the exam table and snaps her fingers at him as he gets a little distracted, the effect muted only by the gloves she wears. 

"Coulson," she sighs loudly, and it makes him pause. "Come here." 

"I thought the patient is supposed to be on the table," he notes as he comes out from his headspace.

"Yeah, well, you're tall, and this makes me the perfect height. So, come here."

He slowly slips into the gap between her legs, putting his hands on either side of her onto the exam bed. He wills himself to stop being so anxious. 

"So, who's the friend?" He wonders, and his curiosity is at peak level.

"That's Eric Koenig. SciTech. He's an engineering cadet, first year. Enjoys my pranks when applied to his brothers."

"Brothers?"

"Three brothers and a sister. All but one attend the Academy."

Phil embodies a goldfish for a moment. Mouth opening and closing as he lacks the words to say what he's thinking.

She takes the opportunity the lull presents and sprays a gauze pad with the disinfecting solution, and as she touches the gauze to his brow, she wraps her legs around his waist automatically as he peels back. She's trapped him between herself and the exam table, and he makes a quiet sort of distressed sound in his mind that comes out as a whine. His hands unconsciously move from the table to her thighs as he tries to escape unsuccessfully.

"Stop squirming. It's just a little medicinal-grade alcohol," she laughs as he freezes. "Should I put you in one of those X-ray tubes for babies to keep you still?"

"What?" He furrows his brow and winces. "Ow, again."

She uses her free hand not holding the gauze to grab hold of the back of his head and angles his brow as she puts the gauze pad on him once more. He leans back but doesn't go anywhere as she continues to dab at his wound as she informs him about the X-ray tube for babies and how it would benefit her as he squirms.

He only winces a few more times before she finishes fixing him up. 

"There," she whispers as she made sure the last butterfly stitch would stay before she slowly releases her unconscious grip on him. 

"Sorry."

"Oh, uh, it's fine," he says as he realizes where his hands have been the entire time and slowly moves them as she drops her ankles. He clears his throat and moves around the room to avoid her gaze under the guise of finding a mirror. 

"Do you have a mirror?"

"Look behind the cabinet on the other side of the sink," she says as she hops down from the exam table and discards the trash and her gloves. 

"It shouldn't scar, but I'm also not a certified physician or plastic surgeon," she tells him as she moves to the sink to wash her hands. 

"Nice job, Doctor," he says with a goofy grin as he checks out her handiwork and steps back to let her have some room. 

"You get good at patching yourself up when you're in various martial arts classes for the last seven years. It also helps when you've got the Koenigs who can supply you with basic first aid supplies."

"Do you get hurt often?" Phil asks a little curious.

"More like they get the healing balm I like at a discount rate when my mom's care package doesn't have any."

Phil nods, and he watches as she tosses her tank top in the trashcan. He makes a sort of distressed hum which has her looking up at him with a brow raised.

"I could have washed that for you," he tells her.

"I have, like, a million of these, Coulson. It's okay."

He still looks bent out of shape about it but drops it as she tugs on her backpack.

"Come on," she tries. "You should probably also hit the showers before class. Just-- try not to get that wet."

She points to her eyebrow to mimic what she's trying to get across.

"Yeah, okay," he nods and escapes the room as she opens the door, and they go back out the way they came in. This time, no Koenig is patrolling the door.

As they walk back to the dorms, he's resigned himself to a hellish day of classes without Melinda in them. Suddenly it didn't seem like an excellent way to spend his birthday, and he needs to make it up to himself because this morning hadn't _really_ gone as planned either.

"I feel like tacos. Do you want tacos?" He asks as they walk the courtyard to go their separate ways for the remainder of the day. Him to shower and then off to the communications building. Her to shower and then off to hopping between the operations and the science and technology buildings. 

"We have classes soon, and it's morning," she says with a puzzled sort on her face. 

"Well, now you've got me wanting a breakfast taco. I meant tonight, you know, for dinner."

"Oh," she drew out the single syllable with a grin. "Sure. I get done--"

"At seven, yeah, I know," Phil nods and then turns slightly pink. 

"And you get done at five," she relays so he doesn't feel quite as embarrassed for memorizing her schedule for when they don't see much of one another.

He quietly hums, and there's a fluttering of something stirring in his chest that he taps down.

"Well, umm, okay."

"You can meet me outside lab 1006," Melinda confirms.

"Yeah, cool," Phil nods. "Sounds good. Er, great."

Melinda nods slowly, and her hands reach for the straps of her backpack, her thumbs curling under the straps as her fingers close in on them.

"See you later, then," she says, but it comes out almost like a question, lingering just in case he wants something else.

"Yeah, see you," he nods, and he begins to turn on his heel.

She watches him walk a few steps before she turns and heads to her dorm. Looking over her shoulder, she finds him doing the same, and his cheeks turn a little pink before he turns back to face forward. She quietly chuckles to herself and heaves out a breath, tightening her grip on her backpack straps.

—

When he gets back to his room from their dinner, he changes into his sweatpants and his Communications Academy T-shirt and is throwing his clothes in his laundry basket when he notices a small bottle on the shelf next to his favourite Captain America figurine. 

It's a small bottle of Macallan, and there's a note under the bottom that's ripped out of what he can only assume is a notebook. He opens the perfect square to find familiar writing. 

_I heard from a reliable source this was Captain America's favourite. Sorry about your face. Happy birthday, Phil._

It's unsigned, but he knows who wrote the note.

He can't stop the grin from forming as he holds the bottle and the note in his hands. He's not surprised Melinda knew what today was. After all, even as a cadet, it seems like her contacts are on the road to being vitally linked to important little details.

If he smiles more often at her for seemingly no reason, it's entirely her fault. 

* * *

The second half of the year of SHIELD Academy had begun, and Melinda May was subjecting herself to her Communications requirement -- _Politics of Developing Nations_. It was week three, and she had a single thing she enjoyed about her Monday and Wednesday night classes. 

Unlike high school, where there were still assigned seating, the Academy lecture halls were a free for all. She didn't enjoy the last-minute chaos of finding seats, so she'd always come ten minutes early and find a place with a few of the other overprepared cadets. She found a seat near the back but not exactly the back row. It was far enough away she wouldn't always be in the eye of the agent teaching the class, but close enough the typical assholes from previous lectures wouldn't annoy her with their inability to sit inside for 90 minutes twice a week. 

She saw movement out of the corner of her eye and prepared herself to be polite to the annoyance. Really, the auditorium was practically empty, and they chose this exact spot. 

"I see I've gotten better at the whole sneaking around thing," Phil says as he drops into the chair next to her without asking her permission as he greets her with a smug grin. 

"It wasn't bad," she says as she leans back in the chair a little and angled herself toward him to look at him in his serious and studious student attire.

He's wearing his glasses and a chambray button-down shirt with dark khaki pants. Melinda knows him well enough now to know when he wears his glasses, he's more tired than he lets on, and she's not surprised. He's been playing catch-up with his classes after being sick for the last week. Communications has a lot more courses with assignments and writing things down for marks, and Phil Coulson was nothing if not a model and earnest student.

"God, you're such a nerd," she says as she looks at his tie that matches his dark brown shoes. 

"Well, you're…" he trailed off as he looks over at her. She's dressed in the Operations all-black kit and her combat boots which suggests she had training before this lecture or has it after and doesn't have time to go back to her dorm. Judging by the duffle bag he now sees, it's the latter.

Her eyes express her request for him to continue and possibly dig himself into a hole. 

"Intense," he finishes. 

Her eyes narrow and her face is impassive. 

"That look, right there," he says as he makes an oval around his face and points to her, "kinda proving my whole point." 

She can't help but shake her head a little. 

"I wasn't expecting you to be here."

"I was getting antsy staying in my room. I'm like 87.5 percent better."

She says nothing because she understands the feeling. 

After he takes out a notebook and two pens, he turns to her and watches her watch him.

"What?" He asks as he looks down at himself, suddenly self-conscious. 

"You caught up yet?" She wonders as she takes her pen in her hand and absently twirls it around her thumb.

"Almost," he nods. "Despite the stereotype, some Operations cadet takes meticulous notes, broke into the Communications dorm, and had slid some notes under my door. There were even notes from classes Operations cadets don't take."

Her face remains impassive, but it's her eyes that give away her amusement in breaking into his dorm building.

"Thank you," he dips his chin in thanks and smiles fondly.

"I have no idea what you're talking about. I don't even know which room is yours," Melinda adopts an aloof persona, and the pen stops twirling to tap the paper in her notebook.

"How long will you be gone?" He asks as he switches topics and gives her attire and duffle bag a pointed look.

"Two weeks," she shrugs a shoulder. "We're learning bouldering in the Adirondacks."

"Bouldering?" Phil asks.

"Kinda like rock climbing, but without all the harnesses and things," Melinda shrugs.

Phil nods slowly.

"Its to prepare us for a free solo, if a retrieval mission goes south. Apparently, a lot of 084s are in remote places. Some with mountains and hostile governments."

His soft expression turns into a slight grimace.

"Just, be careful," he says as the agent who teaches the class walks into the lecture hall and drops his notes on the podium with a thud.

Melinda nods once and returns to facing the front of the lecture hall.

—

The SHIELD Academy dorms are, thankfully, one person to a room which allows them the space they need to destress after particularly intense and long days. Phil Coulson's unique in the way his dorm room is ridiculously tidy yet slightly cluttered with various knick-knacks.

His bed is made; the dark grey sheets weren't the standard-issue white ones that they give you the first day. His comforter is folded in half, which is why she can see the colour of the sheets, and she's not at all surprised he has an eye for subtle colour as his comforter looks black at first, but it's a deep, dark purple.

He asked her for help with Mandarin since his pronunciation is terrible, but his writing of the characters is almost better than her own. And he has an oral presentation at the end of this week which he needs to pass. She had agreed, and he'd subsequently invited her to his room because he already checked if the library had a free study room and there hadn't been any left until nine o'clock that night.

She's been here once on a covert operation but didn't actually pay much attention to anything. Now that she's in, she's growing curious about all his things and he's not stopping her.

His desk has notebooks, and scattered papers she can assume are from his other classes. There's a picture on the corner of his desk. It's of a man who she can expect is Phil's father with Phil, standing next to an old red car of some sort. She's not a car person, so she has no idea if it's rare or classic or whatnot. 

She looks at his bookshelf and finds it filled with textbooks on two of the shelves and a row of comic books and fiction on another two.

"I knew you were a nerd," she tells him as she runs a finger down the spine of one of his history textbooks from a non-SHIELD class. "But it looks like you're quite the World War II history sort of nerd."

"Uh, yeah, that's kinda how I was recruited," he says as he sits on the edge of his bed and watches as she continues to read the titles.

"Oh?" she turns her head to ask him to continue silently.

"I was writing a paper on World War II for a class," he began. "I researched a little too thoroughly and next thing I know, Agent Fury is in my dorm room holding up one of my figurines asking if I've ever heard about the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division."

"This one?" Melinda asks as she holds up a Captain America that looks like one of those model figurines that you paint yourself.

Coulson narrows his eyes in surprise.

"How did you…" he trailed off.

"The paint is two shades of blue," Melinda says as she holds the figurine in her hands. "I'm guessing it's older than you and is more of a sentimental piece than anything else. Fury likes the sentimental pieces."

"It was my dad's," Phil notes quietly.

Melinda puts it back on the shelf as she nods. She turns it slightly, making sure it's standing at the exact angle it had been at before she had picked it up.

She watches as Phil stares at his hands as he folds and unfolds them in his lap.

"My recruitment was boring compared to yours," she says as she moves and sits beside him.

"Why do I doubt that?" Phil jests as he angles himself towards her.

SHIELD wasn't exactly like the other agencies or federal defence systems that had little recruitment centers in strip malls just outside the fast-food joints or gyms, which meant she couldn't exactly walk in and sign up.

"I switched from figure skating to martial arts when I was 12," Melinda says as she tilts her head and smiles a little. "The fall onto a mat hurts a lot less than a fall onto the ice."

Phil pictures a smaller, younger version of Melinda May with the figure skating costumes he'd see whenever he watched the Winter Olympics.

"I was a little obsessed with Dorothy Hamill," she continues.

Phil chuckles as she reveals her secret.

"I was a natural," Melinda rolls her eyes a little at the phrase, but it's true. Her mother taught her early on how to defend herself if she ever needed to escape something terrible. "It was also nice because you didn't have to talk much, which helps when English isn't your first language."

Phil can understand on a certain level but not completely. Growing up in Wisconsin, there wasn't much, if any, diversity in his school. With how well Melinda knows the area, he's sure she grew up somewhere close to here and though it seems more diverse than Manitowoc, people can be terrible.

"Long story short, I caught the eye of someone important with my martial arts skills and here we are."

"Well, I, for one, like that you can speak like nine different languages."

"Come on," she says as she dips her chin to keep from flushing a slight pink at his words. "Let me see your speech, and we'll see how many extra hours at the gym you get to put in."

"I don't remember agreeing to that."

"It's my price, Coulson. Your Mandarin is terrible."

He hangs his head but its all for show based on the smirk he can't hide.

"Has anyone ever told you that you drive a hard bargain?"

"My mother and father, all the time."

"Naturally."

She bites the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling too big and drops her eyes to the paper in her hands, reading the characters carefully, shaking her head at the fact his speech is a little anecdote about Peggy Carter's role in the founding the Playground Base for the SSR back in the day.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> year three at the academy (part one)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter, sorry! More coming soon, though. :)

As third-year cadets, they had to pass the physical training field assessment before the year ended to qualify as fourth (and final) year cadets. Luckily, they have an entire year before finding out whether or not they can pass. 

As an Operations Specialist cadet, Melinda May was in physical training labs three or four days a week now that she's reached the final two years of study at the Academy. Phil Coulson, as a Communications cadet, was only required to attend two days a week sessions. Ultimately, his minimum requirements were lower for passing the cadet testing, but he didn't want to pass at the minimum score just because he was going to be on the analyst field agent side during operations. And, this year, he could pick his class rather than the mandatory basic field training in the first year and hand-to-hand in the second year.

"You're transferring into a class three days before we start the semester?" Melinda May skeptically asks as she lifts her cup of tea and takes a sip. She reads his transfer paperwork upside down and forces herself not to laugh at his choice. When he'd asked to see her schedule, she had thought they were just exchanging it like last year. Instead, he's using it as a reference for his request paperwork.

Since they didn't have to be on campus until classes started, they took advantage of the full pass and Melinda had taken them from their Arlington campus to the Forest Glen neighbourhood of Silver Springs, Mayland, and there was a hole in the wall cafe that made tea shop tea rather than diner-style hot Lipton tea. It had often been her hangout when her mother was off on an operation, and she'd run out of prepared meals and was tired of making smoothies or salads for dinner. Of course, she wasn't about to tell Phil Coulson this since she liked to keep that part of her life out of the Academy.

"I figured we could take a fitness class together," Phil says as he catches her eyes. "It's about time we take a class together where you can kick my ass."

She shakes her head and hides a laughing grin behind her teacup. She has no hard feelings that he's the superior student when it comes to their classes where being eloquent with words is how you're graded. And, she has no doubt he doesn't feel any animosity towards her for being the superior student when it comes to their classes where being physically dominant is how you're graded. After all, it's sort of how their friendship became a thing two and a half years ago.

"You do realize you might not be ready for _Weapons Management, Field Marksmanship, and First Aid_?" She asks.

Although the class doesn't technically have any prerequisites which would bar his entrance, she's not sure what experience he's had in what will be the bulk of the class -- weapons. He's been running two miles with her every other morning and learning taekwondo on Tuesdays and jiu-jitsu on Fridays. But she hasn't taught him much else, especially no gun training.

He swirls his cup of coffee around and takes a sip before he sighs and shrugs his shoulders.

"I'm really in it for the field first aid," Phil says. "Need to learn how to properly patch you up. Kinda like how you patched me up last year."

"You're going to be that terrible of an analyst that you need to patch up your specialist every single op?" She teases.

"Preparing my contingency plans for when things go FUBAR."

She raises both eyebrows in a gesture of acceptance since that's already happened at a few of the joint field operations training the Operations cadets have had with the Air Force cadets.

"Who said I'd partner with you?" She asks only half teasing. "What if we get sent to different bases?"

"As if they'd put you anywhere but either of the D.C. headquarters," Phil says casually. "You're basically the distinguished scholar cadet for Operations. They're going to want to keep you close. After flight school, I'm sure they'll station you in D.C."

She couldn't help the smile that graced her features at how proud and confident he sounded of the track she had told him was her ideal last year at the moving up ceremony. She was sure she'd eventually get to D.C. as she rose in the ranks of specialist, but he was so confident in her abilities that he had her (and most likely himself) at the main headquarters right after graduation and if she got into and finished flight school. 

"Did the sun come out or did you just smile at me?" he asked with a cheesy grin.

Her smile dropped as she rolled her eyes and looked over at him.

"That was terrible," she laughed and bunched up her napkin to throw it at his head. "Did you read that in a book somewhere?"

"Maybe," he shrugs his shoulders. "But I think that's the first real smile I've ever seen from you."

"I've smiled before," she says as her brows furrow.

"Yeah," he nods. "But those smiles were half-ass little coy ones. Or pleased ones that didn't light up as much. Or even the _I'm annoyed but I'm going to pretend I don't see you_ smile that's more like a smirk."

"God, you really are a baby analyst, aren't you?" she shakes her head, amused that he's catalogued many of her expressions, apparently.

"It's better than creep," he says honestly because he didn't mean to open up his mouth and spout all that. Thank god he only went through three on his list.

"Moment over," she said as she finishes her tea and begins to stand from her chair and he follows suit.

"I have to turn this in anyways," he says as he gestures to the course change paperwork that sat in front of him and handed her back her schedule.

She gathers her backpack from the seat next to her and tucks her schedule inside the front pocket and loops it around her shoulders, watching as he gathers his papers into a folder and puts it in his backpack with the Captain America patch on the side. He screws his water bottle lid on tight and grabs it in his hand as he shrugs his backpack onto one of his shoulders. He gestured for her to lead the way.

"You can make it back to the Academy on your own, right?" She asks as they step onto the sidewalk. 

"I think so. Why?" Phil questions. 

"I have a few things to take care of in town and since you have to turn that in," she trails off. 

"Oh, yeah, sure," he nods. "I can find my way around."

"I'll at least walk you to the metro, since I have to head there on the red line, too."

He spent the ride like he did on the trip there -- looking out the window and sighing when they were underground and bumping her shoulder to spot something interesting and ask what it was or if she'd been there when they were above ground.

When she told him he could get off here at the station and go to the yellow line, like the route he took with her this morning, or stay on the red, he had made a show of getting comfortable in the seat next to her. He continued his game of _tourist with the local_ , but she didn't seem to mind.

"Stay on for one more, and make sure you exit at Metro Center and then take the blue line back," she reminds him as she stands and prepares to exit at the Farragut North station.

"See you tomorrow?" He asks as the metro car is coming into the station.

"Yeah," she nods. "See you tomorrow."

He watches her exit, and there's a brief moment where the metro doors close, and she turns back to the window she knows where he's looking out and raises her hand in a small wave as he's smiling and doing the same thing.

She still has a soft sort of smile on her face as she exits the metro station and finds her mother waiting for her on the sidewalk.

—

He was surprisingly good at marksmanship. The groupings were solid, and he could strip and assemble a gun without breaking a sweat after a few rounds of practice -- even when the Operations Academy instructors were breathing down his neck and giving him faux scenarios in which he'd have to do this under pressure and under fire.

She was also good at marksmanship. And her nimble fingers allowed her to be one of the fastest cadets to strip and reassemble any gun put in front of her. But growing up with her mother and her teachings, they were always the last resort for a CIA operative. So, they were the last resort for Melinda May. 

Her thought process worked well for her when they were given a fake gun and told to get through about seven armed guards to get to a package. When it was her turn, Phil had already gone through, and he had been eagerly awaiting her results. So, when she made it through the room, and he spotted her from his vantage point, he quickly sided up to her.

There were three bright green paintball pellet marks on him. Two in his vest and one on his leg which means he got shot midway through. At first blush, it looked like she'd come out unscathed, but there's a neon pink barely-there brush of paint on her upper arm.

"You went for your fun early," she said as she pressed her fingers into the dried paint on his vest. 

"At least you made it to the finish pretty unscathed," he glanced at her arm.

"I've been taught they're the last resort," she shrugs. "Stealth works best when outnumbered and alone."

She looks around at the various cadets, marked with their colours of paint. Some had brushes, like May, but others were quite the spectacle of colours.

"That guy would be long dead," Phil nods over to a guy who sits in the corner of the room looking dejected. "I mean, wow. He's worse off than me. Look at the blue. He didn't even make it past the first guard."

"And he's in Operations," Melinda points out. "Probably not anymore."

"Yikes," Phil says aloud.

She hums her agreement and stands with him, observing their fellow cadets until everyone has gone through the exercise and they're dismissed for the day.

—

_Leadership Development and Assessment_ was an invite-only class in addition to their regular class schedule that featured both Communications and Operations agents teaching and assessing the class of 12 students on Fridays for the next five weeks.

"It's weird, right?" Phil says as they walk out of the library, and he carries a few books on the various styles of leadership.

"The fact there are only 12 of us? That it's two academy divisions teaching it? That I'm somehow the only Operations person in the class?" Melinda asks.

"I think you'd make a great leader," Phil counters her skepticism. "But I was mainly talking about the fact that it's only five weeks long and it's a six-hour class. What if we had classes on Friday already?"

"30 hours of assessment isn't too long," Melinda notes. "Apparently we'll find our inner leader."

"You're leading the pranks," Phil laughs as she bumps his shoulder.

"I don't think that's the kind of leadership they're looking for."

"No," Phil agrees. "But you deserve a seat as much as I do."

"Sometimes I think you think too highly of me," she reminds him.

"And sometimes I wish you had a little more faith," he counters.

"What can I say," she shrugs her shoulders a little as he looks over at her. "I prefer actions to words."

"I know," he nods. _Believe me, I know,_ he thinks. "You want to come to look at the books?"

"I have to do a thing with L.T. in a bit, but I can come over after," she says with a half-smirk.

"Are there bets on which one cries first?" Phil chuckles and holds the few books a little more steady in his arms.

"Smart money will be on Billy," Melinda remarks. "Not that you've heard anything from me."

Phil shakes his head in what he hopes shows he's presenting disapproval, but somehow he snags a ten from his pocket and hands it to her.

She laughs as she takes it.

"I'll leave the door unlocked," he says as he points with his thumb to the Communications dorm.

Sounds good," Melinda nods. "See you later."

Phil watches as she walks swiftly to the Engineering dorms. He doesn't want to know how she gets into these places. It's better if he doesn't know every little detail, right?

—

This time, they're scheduled for a two-person team operation to clear a building, and they've been partnered by observed compatibility and SHIELD's partnering algorithms they've recently developed. Of course, they're going to test it out on cadets before applying it to the SHIELD agents whose missions are a little more intense than pellets of paint.

They're not allowed to watch the other pairs until they've cleared the building since they can view the entire layout at the rally point, so of course Phil volunteers them as first guinea pigs.

As they don their Kevlar and equipment, he explains his rationale as Melinda gives him side-eye. 

"The first person is always the one who unintentionally sets the standard. Plus, how are we supposed to scope out our competition if we're stuck behind the scenes without watching them?"

"Analysts," she whispers under her breath but still meant for him to hear. 

He gives her half a smile. 

She makes him lift his arms and tightens up his vest as it rises with his shoulders.

"Geez, Melinda," he says a little as he gasps at the surprise and slight discomfort. "I think I need to lose some weight if this is going to be a thing I have to do regularly."

"You'll be fine, muffin," she pats his hip in a signal he's good to let his arms down, but he can see the smirk as she's also referencing the muffin top he sports thanks to the vest and his tighter pants with the belt that holds his sidearm and backup.

Unlike the military, SHIELD prefers their operatives to wear tighter tactical wear. Melinda's told him they even have catsuits, but she will literally fight anyone who tries to put her in one or make it standard for women's tactical gear. 

"This is all muscle," he counters.

She gives him a look that's code for she doesn't quite believe him.

"Okay, well, let's do you, then," he counters.

She holds her arms up, and her vest doesn't move.

"Three years of this, Coulson."

"Yeah, you're the expert," he confirms.

He follows her out the door and down the hallway to the blue door where the exercise begins. 

They're counted down from ten, and maybe they should have communicated a little more about this while they were gearing up, but the whistle is blown, and Melinda is making for the door, so he follows. She does something with her hands between her sight of the door as she gazes into the dirty window of the faux warehouse. Soon the door is opening with a quiet whoosh, and he holds the door for her and eases it shut so as not to alert to their presence.

It's unclear why he sticks with her rather than peel off and then meet back in the middle, but she takes views on their right and down a floor, which leaves him the left and up a level, and there's only the ping of hitting wood to signal their success. And it's on the last leg where they're clearing the top floor where a surprise comes from the back and the front and both turn in an almost fluid motion to hit the other's target for a better range.

"That was good, yeah?" He asks slightly out of breath from his heart racing due to the last surprise.

"You're not so bad," she says but can't hide her teasing smile.

They head for the rafters and sit on the catwalk overlooking the mock warehouse to watch the rest of the class. Phil sits down in the middle where Melinda pointed, and he can feel her sit next to him. Her thighs touch his own, and her shoulder occasionally bumps his upper arm as she points something out to him that he's meant to look at for reference.

In the end, he gets more style points for his center of mass shots, but she gets more average kill points, so they're even in the total score. But they beat anyone else out by at least 35 points, and Phil Coulson wonders if this is the moment that will solidify their working partnership in Washington D.C.

—

It's a few weeks after their rousing success in their _Weapons Management, Field Marksmanship, and First Aid_ class that they're walking back from the Communications building to their dorms when he finally gets the courage to do what he's wanted to do for months.

His dorm is closer when they peel off, so she's about five steps away when he jump-starts his brain into action mode.

"Hey," he calls out as she starts to leave to head off to her dorm building.

She pauses and turns back around, the hanging _what_ is visible to him on her face.

"You owe me a drink," he says as he stares at her face, taking in her reaction.

"What, why?" Melinda asks as she wracks her brain for the memory of when she agreed to that or wondering if he was offended when she had taken his water bottle that time last year when she'd been almost late to class because her fieldwork class had run over and she needed a drink but had finished hers. 

He drops the bottle she was thinking about onto the concrete under his feet.

"Because when I looked at you, you made me drop mine."

She stares openly for a minute, face neutral, and he's resorting to dropping out of the Academy right then and there. But suddenly there is a breathless _pfft_ , and it turns into a giggling laugh as her dark eyes light up with amusement. Her laughter makes him chuckle as he swoops down to pick up his water bottle and runs his hands through his hair, still nervous about the entire thing.

"I take it back," she says as she recovers herself and bites her lip and shakes her head at him.

His smile quickly turns into a frown.

"That one is terrible. Worse than the sun one in fact," Melinda notes.

"I got it from the same book," he states.

"Maybe you should stop reading that book. That's a very cheesy way to ask a girl on a date," Melinda says slowly as she takes in his reaction to her words. She obviously got it right by the way he looks so hopeful.

"Maybe it is."

"It definitely is." 

"So, that's a yes, right?"

She smiles softly and nods. 

"Yeah, it is a yes."

"Cool." 

_God_ , she thinks as he looks at her with the dopiest, widest grin she's ever seen. _He's such a nerd_.

There's an awkward pause where they're staring at one another and Phil's brain finally kicks him into motion again.

"I, umm, I know you're only 20, so, we can't have actual drinks because of the whole personal ethics thing we had to sign on our first day. But I have a plan."

"Of course you do," she says as she bites the inside of her cheek to keep herself from grinning.

"Leave next Thursday open," he says quickly.

"Okay," she nods, and her hands seek the straps of her backpack as he blushes pink.

"See you tomorrow morning?"

"Yeah," he says quickly. "See you tomorrow."

This time she watches him walk away, feeling a slight _something_ as he looks back and ducks his head before he turns back to watch where he's going.

**Author's Note:**

> Melinda May and Phil Coulson are precious idiots who deserve the world. I'm finally hopping on the fic writing train for these two idiots, so please be kind.


End file.
